


Lucky

by Adolphus Longestaffe (adolphus_longestaffe)



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Punisher (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Bisexual Clint Barton, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multi, cannot stress enough that this is not MCU clint, clint barton from hawkeye comics, clint fucks a lot of people, more ship tags will be added, not mcu clint, referenced bobbi morse/natasha romanov, seriously clint gets around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29556897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adolphus_longestaffe/pseuds/Adolphus%20Longestaffe
Summary: American Sign Language (ASL) is a nuanced and complex language, with its own rules regarding syntax, sentence structure, grammar, etc. It is not a stand-in for English, and thus presents a complication when written in an English language narrative that will primarily reach English speaking readers. I want the story to be as readable as possible, while respecting the fact that the main character is a deaf person navigating a hearing-person's world.In the interest of communicating most effectively: when a character in this narrative is speaking in ASL, I have chosen to paraphrase into English, in order to relate total meaning, rather than attempt to transliterate actual ASL grammatical syntax, which would be a disservice anyway, since it would lose much in the translation that is communicated through non-manual signaling such as facial expression etc., when the language is spoken in person.Other notes: Ellipses (...) typed in bold face, when a character is speaking to him represent gaps in my deaf character's perception of what is being said aloud (because lip-reading isn't magic), and the attached parentheticals (these) are words he fills in from context, either correctly or incorrectly.When he is reading communication on his comms lens, the text appears in the narrative labeled with the speaker's name as it does on his screen, unless the person speaking is in the room with him, talking face to face, where I have used normal quotes and speech tags. This is, again, due to the much greater expressivity of language when its nonverbal elements are included.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Bobbi Morse, Clint Barton & Lucky (Hawkeye), Clint Barton/Frank Castle, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Other(s), Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, clint barton & karen page
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> American Sign Language (ASL) is a nuanced and complex language, with its own rules regarding syntax, sentence structure, grammar, etc. It is not a stand-in for English, and thus presents a complication when written in an English language narrative that will primarily reach English speaking readers. I want the story to be as readable as possible, while respecting the fact that the main character is a deaf person navigating a hearing-person's world. 
> 
> In the interest of communicating most effectively: when a character in this narrative is speaking in ASL, I have chosen to paraphrase into English, in order to relate total meaning, rather than attempt to transliterate actual ASL grammatical syntax, which would be a disservice anyway, since it would lose much in the translation that is communicated through non-manual signaling such as facial expression etc., when the language is spoken in person. 
> 
> Other notes: Ellipses (...) typed in bold face, when a character is speaking to him represent gaps in my deaf character's perception of what is being said aloud (because lip-reading isn't magic), and the attached parentheticals (these) are words he fills in from context, either correctly or incorrectly. 
> 
> When he is reading communication on his comms lens, the text appears in the narrative labeled with the speaker's name as it does on his screen, unless the person speaking is in the room with him, talking face to face, where I have used normal quotes and speech tags. This is, again, due to the much greater expressivity of language when its nonverbal elements are included.

“So far? Just shitbags. Kinda looks like he’s doing our light work for us.”

**Widow: Whatever he’s doing, it’s extrajudicial and denial of due process.**

“What’s the matter, Rogers feeling defensive cause extrajudicial and denial of due process are his turf?”

**Widow: You’re hilarious.**

“Can’t hear you, Nat. Can’t tell when you’re being sarcastic.”

**Widow: Have I ever called you hilarious non-sarcastically?**

“Touché. So, what does Rogers want me to do about this guy? Haul him in because he’s mopping up gun-runners and mafia scum? Seems counterproductive, to me.”

**Widow: Actually, he wants to try a different approach, this time.**

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not gonna like this?”

**Widow: Because you have good instincts? Rogers wants you to work with Castle. Keep an eye on him for a while. Try to get a better read on him.**

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose, then has to re-adjust his comms eyepiece. “They’re looking at making him an asset, then.”

**Widow: Anything’s possible.**

“So, yes. Ok, how am I supposed to work with this guy? Far as I can tell, he’s not exactly looking for a partner.”

**Widow: You’re gonna bring him a big case. One he won’t be able to resist. And someone he trusts is going to get you in the door. Name’s Karen Page.**

“The reporter who writes the exposés on corrupt cops?”

**Widow: She prefers journalist. She’s Castle’s friend and pretty much the only person who believed in him when he was on trial for all those gang murders.**

“How sweet. Where do I find Ms. Page?”

**Widow: I’m sending her to you. She’ll meet you at your place tomorrow at ten.**

“Wait, AM or PM?”

**Widow: You want to make it nine?**

“Fine. I’ll…probably be up by then. Anything else I should know about her?”

**Widow: She’s stubbornly committed to truth and justice, she’s honest, pays her bills on time, donates too much money to charity for someone in her financial situation, no criminal record, and she’s all the way loyal to Castle. Also, she’s fluent in ASL, so that might come in handy. I’m emailing the case details now. Good luck.**

“Hey Nat, wait. You, uh…doing anything later?”

**Widow: I’m working. And it’s two in the morning. And I already told you it’s not happening again.**

“Aw, come on. You say that every time. And I’m so cute.”

**Widow: Which is the only reason you don’t get slapped more. Fair warning, by the way, Page packs heat and she doesn’t fuck around, so don’t get fresh with her.**

“I’m offended by the suggestion. I have never made an advance I wasn’t a hundred percent sure was welcome. I’m way too much of a coward for that.”

**Widow: That’s true.**

“I mean, you know me. I’m a huge fucking mess.”

**Widow: Also true.**

“I’m basically an overgrown toddler.”

**Widow: You having a moment of clarity or something, Barton?**

“Woman with her shit even a little bit together would never give me the time of—”

**Widow: I’ll be at your place in twenty minutes. If you’re not there and naked, I’m leaving.**

“Already on my way.”

Exactly seventeen minutes later, he is climbing in his sixth-floor apartment window from the fire-escape, greeted enthusiastically by the big golden-retriever-mutt with whom he shares his life and home. He drops his bow and quiver and kicks off his shoes on the way to the bathroom, hurrying to brush his teeth and swipe on some deodorant as he undresses. He’s blonde and blue-eyed, tall, well-built and in nearly Olympic shape. Overall, an uncommonly attractive man, physically. But none of the things he said about being a mess or an overgrown toddler are exaggerations. He has no idea what would possess a woman like Natasha Romanoff to fuck him even once, let alone the many times this has indeed occurred, but he’s not about to look that particular gift horse in the mouth. Based on himself and the metal-armed Hydra assassin who shall remain nameless, he suspects she has a kink for guys who are basically walking disasters. If that’s the case, he’s more than happy to oblige her.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he knows she’s there, because Lucky isn’t sitting directly outside the door for him to trip over. He pads back down the hall to his bedroom and steps cautiously in, over Lucky, who is lying across the doorway like a dog-shaped speedbump. Before he has a chance to look around to assess the situation, he is grabbed and tossed bodily onto his bed, where he is pinned down by unnaturally strong hands.

“Hey, Nat,” he pants, heart pounding in his throat. “How’s it—ah! Holy…holy shit.”

His partially coherent exclamations are the product of the Russian super-assassin’s scarlet-lipped mouth interacting with his cock. She licks and sucks him tantalizingly, just long enough to make him rock-hard and absolutely insane, then pulls away and moves back up to kiss him. He slides his hands up under her short, black skirt as she straddles his hips. She’s not wearing underwear. Her skin feels like silk and her hair smells like flowers. Her mouth tastes like…tangerines or something. He gasps as she guides him inside, swallowing his rigid shaft in her tight, wet heat. Christ. She could kill him right now and he would die happy. Maybe she’ll fuck him to death one of these days. She’s definitely strong enough.

She leaves her top and bra on, but pulls them down to expose her absolutely perfect breasts. She’s never actually been naked when they’ve fucked. It’s always him. Not that he’s about to complain. He’s got his hands on her little round ass, his tongue on her pebble-hard pink nipples and she’s riding him like a championship racehorse. He can see her chest heaving and her parted lips. That might be the cruelest part of losing his hearing again, that he can’t hear her gorgeous, smoky voice making those fucked-out little moans anymore.

He watches her keenly, instead. Feels every millimeter of her body, every flex of her muscles as she arches her back, thighs shaking, insides clamping down while she comes on his dick. He hangs on, fucking her through the sucking spasms, till the aching knot of tension in his balls explodes and he comes hard, flooding her convulsing hole with bursts of warm, slippery fluid. Then he pulls her down on top of him and covers her mouth in a sloppy kiss. He’s panting like an asthmatic smoker and sweating like a whore in church, but she’s not even winded. Figures. Must be nice to be a genetically enhanced superhuman.

She never stays after, but it feels good to touch her and hold her like this, so he lies there savoring the moment, staring at the ceiling, stroking her back and carding his fingers through her glossy, dark-red hair for as long as she’ll let him. After a while she pushes herself up so he can see her mouth when she’s talking to him. A courtesy she never fails to perform for him, though he only catches about forty percent, anyway.

“Thanks for the ride, Barton,” she smiles.

“No problem, Romanoff,” he grins back. “Always happy to help.”

She sits up to rearrange her top and bra, and he can see that she has her high, black heels on, too.

“Hey, you know what?” he says offhandedly. “We’ve fucked, like, a lot times and I’ve never seen you naked.”

“Well, you’ve **...** parts **...** matter.” 

He loses most of the sentence because she’s craning her neck down to fix something that has apparently gone wrong with her bra, but he can extrapolate from context. He also can’t hear her tone, but there is a very subtle shift in her posture and expression that warns him off the topic.

“So, you think this Castle guy is worth our time?” he asks, steering into safer waters.

“Don’t know,” she shrugs, as she gets out of bed and tugs down the hem of her skirt. “That’s why **...** (sen)ding you. To find out.”

She steps over Lucky, who is still stretched out on the floor, wagging his tail like a happy doormat, as she leaves the room. Clint sees the bathroom light go on, then fade as she shuts the door. He hops up and pulls on some underwear, then crouches down to rub Lucky’s belly, before he heads into the kitchen. He’s facing the sink, sipping a glass of water, when Natasha’s soft little hands slip around his waist. He turns around and smiles down at her. She takes his glass and swallows the rest of the water, then stands tip-toe even in her heels to press a kiss to his lips. He admires her slender legs as she goes to pull on her long, black coat and pick up her bag from the sofa.

“Hey, Barton,” she says, looking him full in the face, like she does when she wants to make sure he understands everything she’s about to say. “Try to **...** with Castle **...** don’t **...** much trouble. I’m **...** be (out) of town for a few weeks. I won’t be **...** save your ass if shit goes south.”

“Out of town for—” He stops short and his brow furrows darkly. “Him again?”

She purses her crimson lips and looks away.

“Fuck’s sake, Nat, how many times are you gonna—”

“As many as it takes!” she says, turning on him with sudden ferocity that he can see perfectly well without having to hear it in her voice.

He withstands her anger, growing heated himself. “You know, just because we fuck sometimes doesn’t mean I’m not still your friend. I am. I care about you. What do you think you’re gonna do by going after him? Aside from getting hurt again.”

“I’m going **...** through to him **...** (or) I’m going to die trying.”

“I’m glad you’ve resigned yourself to that, because that’s what’s going to happen, Natasha. He is going to kill you.”

“You don’t know. You don’t know him.”

He crosses his arms. “Fine. You want to keep beating your head against that wall, I can’t stop you.”

“You’re right. You can’t. **...** of your business, Clint. You know what, don’t (talk to?) me about him **...** ok?”

“Nat, come on,” he sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to tell you what to do about your friend, I’m just worried about you.”

“Well, I’m a big girl. I **...** of myself. I gotta go. I’ll **...** you when I’m back **...** .”

“Ok. Just…stay safe, please. See you soon.”

She gives a him a little half-smirk, then tosses her dark-red hair over her shoulder as she walks out the door. He stands leaning on the counter, massaging his brow with his fingertips, until Lucky barrels into his legs, all slobber and ebullient affection, partly because he knows intuitively when his human is upset and needs a bunch of dog drool all over him to comfort him, and partly because it’s time to be fed and he lacks the thumbs to open the metal cans that contain his food. Once the dog has been petted and fed, Clint switches on the TV and lies down on the sofa with a blanket. He never sleeps in his bed. Can’t stand the silence. He is aware how stupid that seems now, but he still can’t stand it. Lucky clambers up and flops onto him, and he drifts off to sleep under a pile of warm dog, staring at an infomercial about a device that takes perfectly good eggs and cooks them into horrifying egg-tubes.

He startles awake, his brain still muddled with dreams of the Winter Soldier with an egg-tube arm, holding him down and beating him senseless, splattering disgusting egg-water all over his face as his squishy fist pounds him into the ground. Of course, the Winter Soldier is just Lucky standing on him, and the disgusting wet all over his face is dog tongue, licking him to wake him up.

“Aw, dog, no,” he protests, pushing the ecstatic mutt gently but firmly away. “Gross. This is gross.”

Lucky cocks his head to one side and looks like an idiot.

“Don’t give me that look. What are you doing jumping all over me like a crazy person? It’s not time for your—”

The lights flash just then, signaling that someone is ringing his doorbell. Lucky hops up and trots cheerfully over to the door, followed unsteadily by his yawning, bleary-eyed master. Clint fumbles with the lock and chain, then pulls the door open, ready to grumpily dismiss whoever this early-morning intruder is. The hallway light casts a halo around a head of long, pale-blonde hair, situated atop the body of a tall, very pretty woman in a smart, grey skirt-suit. She opens her mouth, then stands there blinking at him.

“Clint Barton?” she ventures, tactfully averting her eyes.

“Yeah, that’s—oh, shit. Sorry,” he says, realizing that he’s in his underwear and probably looks like a fucking lunatic. “You’re Karen Page, right?”

“Yes. Um. Am I early? I can come back later, if you—”

“No, no, come on in,” he says, using the door to shield his indecently exposed body. “Let me just grab some, uh…I’ll be right back.”

She stands in the area between the kitchen and living room, looking around at his lack of décor as he hurries into his bedroom and pulls on some jeans and a t-shirt. He trips over one of his shoes on his way back up the hall and curses, catching himself on the wall. Ms. Page politely pretends not to notice. Great first impression he’s making, so far. Real professional.

“Coffee?” he says, as he reenters the kitchen.

“Sure. Thank you,” she nods. She has a kind of perplexed half-frown on her face, and it occurs to him what the confusion is.

“I haven’t always been deaf,” he explains. “I can talk pretty much the same as always. Just can’t hear myself.”

“Do you speak ASL?” she signs. He can tell by her easy, fluid movements and her non-manual signals that she is definitely fluent.

He nods, then signs his next sentence. “I was injured and had near-total hearing loss as a child. My brother and I learned ASL then. It only lasted a few years. I had another injury recently and lost more than eighty dB. They say it’s permanent this time.”

Her eyes widen and her eyebrows go up. “Wow. Two separate injuries? That’s really bad luck.”

“I was more susceptible because of the earlier one, so it was actually more likely than it would have been otherwise.” He turns around to put water in the coffee pot and continues verbally. “You have a deaf relative, or something?”

He looks back at her to see her answer.

“Yes. My younger twin brothers were born deaf. And with a lot of other health problems. I grew up taking care of them and speaking ASL with them.”

He nods and turns to scoop ground coffee into the filter and start the pot, then turns back to her. She’s bending down to scratch Lucky behind the ears.

“Have a seat, please,” he signs, when she looks up again, indicating to the small, diner-style breakfast table. “I apologize for answering the door like that. I was expecting you and everything, I’m just…an idiot.”

She laughs at this and her face lights up so prettily, he wishes he could hear it. He bets it sounds like sunshine feels. Once the coffee’s done, he pours two mismatched mugs and sets one in front of her, as he sits down. She picks hers up and eyes the chipped, blue writing on the side.

“Number one dad, huh?” she asks verbally, then signs, “You have kids?”

“Yeah—I mean, no. I mean that was a joke my friends thought was really funny. About kids I might have and, uh…not know about.”

His face flushes pink and he hides in his own mug, feeling like the biggest jackass on the planet. Fortunately, Ms. Page laughs at that, too. God, this coffee is awful, was it always this bad?

After a charitable sip or two, she sets down her mug to sign. “If I can be honest, you’re not what I was expecting. When my friend said the Avengers wanted to meet with me, I sort of thought she meant…”

“Captain America?” Clint smirks. “Or Thor? Yeah, I’m not exactly a superhero. There’s a few of us regular humans on the team. What we’ve got instead of superpowers are specific, unique abilities that make us useful and worth the risk of putting in combat with superhumans.”

“Oh? What kind of unique abilities?”

“Archery.”

She blinks. “Archery. Like…with a bow and arrows?”

“I don’t blame you for the look on your face right now, cause that’s what I’d look like, if someone told me that. You’ll just have to wait and see what I can do.”

“I look forward to it. So, Maria emailed me about the case you’re working on. It sounded familiar, so I went through my old notes. Turns out I was looking into something a year ago that may be related.”

Shit. The case. He was otherwise occupied last night and didn’t even look at the message Natasha sent. He digs out his phone.

“I’m gonna pull up my…file. What exactly has she told you about it, so far? So we can compare notes.”

“Just the broad strokes. Organized crime branching into human trafficking in the Brooklyn-Queens area. I was investigating a rash of disappearances of seventeen-year-old girls in the same area, but it didn’t go anywhere. The police wouldn’t believe the disappearances were related and refused to even call them potential abductions. Got nowhere interviewing the foster families and staff at the group homes.”

“All foster families and group homes?” Clint asks.

“Yeah. That was the thread that tied them all together. None of them were living with a natural parent or relative.”

“Looks like someone was banking on the fact that the girls were nearing legal adulthood, and the caregivers would be less inclined to pursue the disappearance of a child who was about to stop generating income for them, anyway. Sorry if that sounds cynical.”

“No, unfortunately, that was the general impression I got. The ones who would even talk to me didn’t seem to have much interest in searching for the girls. Most of them just assumed they’d run away.”

“So, what makes you think Castle will be interested in helping out with this?”

“It’s definitely the kind of thing Frank does, but I can’t guarantee he’ll be interested. It’s not going to be easy getting him on board with the idea of working with a partner again.”

“Again?”

“Let’s just say he likes to do things his way. Also, his way isn’t the strictly legal way.”

“But you think he’s a good man. And that what he’s doing is right.”

“I think Frank is a response to the system failing. Spectacularly. Obviously, we need the system. We embrace vigilante justice and we’ll have mob rule. But when something goes so wrong that the system can’t react properly, or is too corrupt or weak to do so, men like Frank become necessary.”

He looks keenly into her face. “You think he’s above the law?”

“No,” she signs, shaking her head but not breaking eye contact. “I think he’s better than the law. Because he operates outside of it, he’s able to operate from the premise of right and wrong, rather than technicalities like legal or illegal.”

Clint chuckles. “I know a guy like that. Kinda guy that, if what he’s doing is illegal, it’s probably the law that’s wrong, not him. You gonna put me in touch with Castle, then?”

“He’s understandably paranoid,” she says aloud as she signs. “If he’s going to meet with you, he wants a guarantee that he’s not being led into a trap.”

“Got it,” Clint nods, speaking aloud as well. “The Avengers have had an eye on you for quite a while, Mr. Castle. If we had any interest in arresting you, we would have, long before now. That’s all the guarantee you’re getting. That said, I think we can help each other.”

Ms. Page pauses for a moment, looking into the middle distance. So she’s got an earpiece hidden under her long hair. Cute.

“Alright,” she says, rising to her feet. She draws a card out of her pocket and puts it on the table. “That address, nine o’clock tonight.”

“Alone and unarmed, I imagine?” Clint says drily, picking up the card.

“Alone, yes. Unarmed, I wouldn’t recommend in that neighborhood, but it’s up to you.” 

He gets up to walk her to the door, and holds it open for her. “Hey, shouldn’t I get your number? You know, in case we need to…talk about the case?”

“No. I have yours,” She signs, smiling mischievously. “I’ll call you if anything comes up. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Barton.”

He is still looking after her, when another woman comes around the corner, passing her as she departs. Clint curses under his breath. The door is open, she’s already seen him, and now she certainly thinks he and Ms. Page were—

“Bobbi,” he sighs. “To what do I owe the…whatever the word for this is.”

The still-stunning even after all this time blonde arches an eyebrow. “I hope I’m not (interr)upting ... You have more women in there? Men? I (can) wait.”

He backs into the apartment, letting her in past him, then swings the door shut. Lucky, the goddamned traitor, practically leaps into her arms for kisses and pets the moment she’s inside. Clint narrows his eyes at the mutinous canine, then goes to his room to put on his comms eyepiece. He comes back and sets his phone on the counter, where the speaker will pick up her voice. Bobbi produces an envelope from her comically oversized purse and hands it to him.

“Congratulations,” she says, captioned in real-time in little purple letters on the lens in front of his left eye. “You are divorced.”

He opens the envelope and scans the letter, in which their attorneys take more words to convey the same the idea. He looks up at her again.

“Your copy of the filing paperwork,” she says, dropping a much larger manila envelope onto the counter. “If that very pretty, far too good for you young lady I saw leaving here is stupid enough to want to, you’re now free to make an honest woman of her.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Ms. Page is just a work associate.”

Bobbi rolls her eyes. “So is Natasha. And Wanda. And Eddie. And S—”

“Hey, I never officially worked with Eddie…not that that’s important. The important thing is that I am very sorry for my many lapses in judgement.”

“Are you.”

“Absolutely.”

“And if you had a chance to do it all over again, you’d…”

“Probably do the exact same thing. That’s why you divorced me, remember?”

“I divorced you because for an open relationship to function, both partners have to be aware of the other’s extracurricular activities. I never fucked anyone else without letting you know. You had it so good, Clint. Why was failure to disclose the hill you chose to die on?”

“How could I come to my _wife_ and tell her I wanted to have sex with _men_ , Bobbi?”

“The same way I told you when I wanted to have sex with women. Why is my bisexuality perfectly acceptable to you, but when it comes to yours, it’s this deep, dark secret? It would never have been a problem, if you had just told me.”

He shakes his head, closing up and coiling into himself internally. “I…couldn’t.”

A look of pain clouds her face and she turns away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to guilt you about it, or anything.”

She takes a deep breath, turning back to face him. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about what I was saying. I didn’t mean to be cruel.”

“I know.”

“We’re really bad at this, Clint. People like us should never be married to anyone. Especially not to that sweet girl I saw leaving here.”

“For fuck’s—there is nothing going on between me and Karen Page.”

“Relax, I’m just busting your balls. Also, I can smell Natasha’s perfume all over you. I thought she was out of town.”

“She is, by now. Left here around four AM. She’s being so fucking stupid, Bobbi. I can’t understand where her head’s at.”

Bobbi shrugs unconcernedly. “She’s in love. People do stupid shit when they’re in love.”

“Most stupid shit people do when they’re in love won’t get them sniped and buried in an unmarked grave in Siberia.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “He’s not gonna kill her.”

“That’s exactly what she said,” Clint says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You two know something I don’t? Because last I checked, he has shot her on multiple occasions.”

“Yeah, and she’s shot him a bunch of times, too. It’s basically flirting for them.”

“You goddamn superhumans. Flirting, attempted murder, what’s the difference?”

“It wasn’t attempted murder. You’ve seen the scars. From a sniper like him? Those are very obvious intentionally-nonlethal wounds.”

“I haven’t seen them.”

“You two have been fucking since before you and I got married. How have you not seen her scars?”

“She doesn’t…take her clothes all the way off with me. She does with you?”

“Uh. This suddenly feels like stuff we should not be discussing with each other, so I am going to say no comment. Anyway, happy divorce. I gotta run. I have a lunch thing with with Jessica.”

Clint makes a face. “K, have fun with that.”

“She’s not that bad,” Bobbi laughs, crouching down to ruffle the dog’s fur and give him kisses. “Bye Lucky, my good, good boy. You take care of your daddy. He’s an accident waiting to happen.”


	2. Chapter 2

Faded purple hoodie with no drawstring, Mars Volta t-shirt from like 2004, slim-fit jeans with a hole in one knee, ratty Chuck Taylors, dog. He looks like any mid-thirties, post-hipster douchebag. This is Clint’s ‘I’m not an Avenger’ ensemble for going to meet Frank Castle. Also, conveniently, his regular clothes. And dog. The shabby hipster exterior ends beneath his hoodie, where a compactly folded combat bow is concealed in a holster at the small of his back, along with a pouch containing what amounts to a full quiver of telescoping arrows, retracted down to the size of their hollow, razor-sharp arrowheads. He has a puncture-resistant, aramid base layer on under the t-shirt, too. It’s not exactly bulletproof, but hopefully the conversation won’t go that poorly. Lucky is proudly wearing his royal-blue, registered service dog vest, with an “I’m friendly please pet me” patch velcroed on, which, along with Clint’s stellar smile, gets him in pretty much anywhere without a hassle. 

The greasy-spoon diner Frank Castle has chosen for their meeting isn’t any different. One look at the adorable, golden-haired service dog and his adorable, golden-haired deaf person, and the wait staff are conquered. They coo and fawn over Lucky as they show him and his human companion to a booth near the bathrooms, where the aisle is wide enough so that the big handsome boy (the canine one) does not present a serious tripping hazard. Then they do what most hearing people do, of course, which is try to speak very slowly (and probably loudly) thinking Clint will somehow magically become able to hear them. He smiles politely and then indicates to coffee on the menu, explaining that he’s waiting for someone. 

The jackass is already here, of course, thinking he’s being fucking subtle in his black Carhartt jacket and black hoodie with the hood pulled up, hunched over his newspaper like he’s checking it for typos. Clint is tempted to just wave him over, but he decides to let the man play his little spy game, if he wants to. He’s obviously an amateur at this kind of thing, but not a terrible one. Clint’s been watching him for nearly two weeks and he’s managed to give him the slip a few times. He changes his gait, his silhouette, keeps clothing items on him to alter his appearance at the drop of a hat. He’s a ruthless combatant, too. Moves quickly and quietly, uses cover and darkness to their full advantage, strikes to disarm and disable, and shoots to kill. No showiness, no fucking around. Clint respects that. 

He pretends to squint at the clock above the kitchen pickup-window and puts on his glasses. Metal frames, innocuous enough to be believable, with slightly violet-tinted lenses, through which he can collect a vast array of data from his surroundings. What he’s most interested in at the moment is the fact that—much like his far less covert comms eyepiece—they pair with his phone, and use its internal mic to live-caption the nearby world for him. It gets messy if more than three people are talking, but if he pays attention, he can often tell who’s saying what. He listens (reads) idly to the middle-aged gentlemen in the booth in front of him, who are engaged in a serious debate regarding the merits of various Formula One racing drivers. After a few more minutes, black-hoodie gets up and walks past him, out the door of the café. Clint frowns. Is he meant to follow him? He feels Lucky pawing his foot and looks down. There’s a crumpled bit of newspaper perched in the middle of the service-dog vest on his back.

“Good boy,” Clint croons, as he scoops up the ostensible bit of trash.

He uncrumples it and reads “build site linden/wyckoff” scrawled in the margin in pencil. Spy games it is, then. Can’t just sit in this comfortable, indoor place, with coffee and flirty waitresses and no rain, which it has just begun to do outside. Gotta walk six blocks and hang around some dirty construction site and smell wet dog for the rest of the night, because someone read too many John Grisham novels. Clint stuffs the note in his pocket and leaves a twenty on the table, as a sort of apology to the friendly waitresses for walking out without letting them say goodbye to Lucky. Once he’s outside, he hangs his glasses from his shirt collar underneath his hoodie so they won’t get all wet and splotchy, pulls his hood over his head, and attaches the lead to Lucky’s vest.

Lucky is a genuine registered service animal for the deaf, but he’s also an excellent wingman. His retriever softness tends to distract people from the fact that he is a very large dog, and no one ever suspects his dumb, sweet face of having been through extensive combat training. That used to work for Clint, too, when he was in his twenties, but he’s collected some visible scars and packed on about forty pounds of muscle since then. Though, now he thinks of it, he still plays on his disarming appearance a lot more than he realized. Deaf, he sort of gets, even though it’s shitty, because it literally stands in the way of communication between himself and others. But what is it about being blonde and good-looking that makes people assume you’re stupid? And he’s hot, blonde, _and_ deaf. People must assume he’s an actual mental child. Not…that they’d be that far off, but still.

He circles the proposed meeting place by a block in each direction and approaches from the northwest, which is the opposite of what Castle will be expecting. In an alleyway across the street, he crouches in the deep shadows to unfasten and stow Lucky’s lead, and leaves him on lookout duty. Then he jumps up and catches the bottom bracket of the fire-escape, onto which he swings himself with extraordinary agility, to rapidly scale the remainder of the fire-escapes till he reaches the roof of the apartment building. Keeping low, he approaches the edge of the roof scans the construction site. The foundation and framing of a multi-story building are up, but only about a quarter of the panels of drywall have been attached to what will be the interior walls. Big sheets of plastic hung over exposed insulation are blowing around in the wind, and the lights are off for the night, which makes up for the apparent visibility of the place with darkness and a bunch of distracting movement. Aside from the cliché, it’s not an altogether terrible locat—

The cold barrel of a firearm digs into the back of his neck, derailing his train of thought. His hands go up immediately and he rises slowly to his full height. His first priority is to communicate to this person that he cannot hear what they are saying. His deafness places him in much more danger in these situations than a hearing person, because it’s easy for someone to mistake him not hearing them for inattention or defiance. All he can do is speak up and hope they don’t shoot him before he explains.

“I am deaf,” he says clearly and calmly. “I am cooperating, but I can’t hear you. If you want to give me orders or ask questions, they will have to be nonverbal.”

The barrel of the gun is removed from his neck. At the same time, he feels a tap on his hand, and another on the back of his head, and knows to place his hands on his head. He now also knows that this person (a man, unless it’s a woman intentionally masking her scent) has had experience communicating with hostiles through a language barrier. That would most likely make him a veteran of an overseas conflict, which supports Clint’s near certainty that this is Frank Castle. A firm tap on the back of his knee with the toe of a boot indicates that he should kneel.

He bends his knees, as if he is following the order, then springs backward abruptly, propelling his full weight into the man, with a trained gymnast’s speed and strength. His assailant is knocked flat on the ground, and two-hundred pounds of Clint come down on top of him. The man grapples him, attempting to get an arm around his neck, but Clint writhes out of his grasp like a serpent, striking backward with his elbow, to land a sharp jab in his ribs. Lightning quick, he flips over and wrests the gun from his grasp. The man spreads out his hands and raises them in token of surrender, as Clint stands over him.

“Frank Castle,” Clint says, backing away a step. “Nice to meet you.”

When Mr. Castle has gotten to his feet, he flips the gun around and holds it out to him, stock first. Frank eyes him warily, but he takes it and stows it in his back holster.

“Aw, man, I hope you didn’t make me break my glasses with all this stupidity. Stark will—nope, they’re ok. Just a sec. I need them to understand you, unless you speak ASL.”

He puts on the glasses and takes out his phone, while Frank Castle stands there staring at him like he’s putting him out, which is rich, considering he’s the one who wanted to do this the hard way. Clint intentionally takes a lot longer engaging the captioning function than he needs to, since the process is so plainly irritating Frank, and Frank snuck up on him and pulled a gun on him like a dick, so this is what Frank fucking gets. Minorly inconvenienced in the rain.

“So, Frank,” he says, at last. “Wanna explain why you snuck up on me and pulled a gun on me like a dick?”

“Why were you skulking around up here instead of going to the spot I told you to meet me?” Frank fires back.

“Why were you skulking around up here to catch me skulking around?” Clint rejoins, crossing his arms.

“This is the stupidest fuckin’ conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Well, it’s not the stupidest one I’ve had. Not by a long shot. But it is one of the stupidest _places_ to have a conversation. Why couldn’t we just talk back at the café like normal human beings?”

“Cause I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t—I just gave you back your gun. After you held me up with it. Is that not worth a little vote of confidence?”

“You only gave it back cause you figure you can handle me with or without it. Pardon me for not gettin’ misty eyed over the display of good will.”

“Well…you’re not wrong. But still, what do you think I’m going to do to you at a crowded public diner that I couldn’t do in a dark, isolated construction site?”

“I don’t trust you enough to tell you that.”

“Ok, good talk. It’s cold as balls out here, I’m soaked all the way through my hoodie, my glasses are all wet and I can hardly see, and my dog is down in the alley by himself. Can we please go somewhere with a roof and walls?”

“I’m fine. Maybe if you were dressed like an adult, you wouldn’t be cold and wet. Why the fuck do you look like you fell into a dumpster full of Urban Outfitters factory irregulars, anyway.”

“Cause people who shop there are trying to emulate how cool I already was ten years ago.”

“Wow,” Frank snorts. “Deaf and delusional. I got the Avengers A-squad tailin’ me.”

“I _am_ on the A-squad, dick. Just because I don’t dress like goth GI Joe doesn’t mean I’m not good at my job. I took you down unarmed and without even really trying, just now.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, but if you couldn’t do that, you should probably hand in your badge or whatever they give you guys. Don’t the Avengers fight like…alien monsters and superhumans?”

“Yeah. We do. Including me.”

“Where you going?”

“To check on my dog and find somewhere to dry off. You coming?”

“Why would you bring a dog to a meeting like this?” Frank asks, as he follows Clint down the fire escape ladders.

“He’s my service animal. I know you saw the vest, you dropped your stupid note right on it.”

“I didn’t know if that was real. Coulda been part of your disguise.”

Clint blinks up at him. “Disguise?”

“Wait…this is how you really dress?”

“You know what, Frank, you’re not as badass cool-guy as you think you are. These clothes are comfortable and practical, and I happen to—”

“Yeah, practical until it rains, then you’re soaking wet and bitching about it like a nine-year-old girl.”

“—and I happen to like them. Also, I prefer not to go around advertising to everyone who sees me that I was formerly or am currently in the military, or employed by the DOJ, or working in the private military sector. I look like normal people. You should try it. Maybe you’d be less easy to put a tail on.”

Clint swings down and drops the remaining distance to the ground, then looks smug while Frank descends the final set of stairs and drops down the same way, but with far less ease and gracefulness. The rain keeps getting in his eyes and making him blink and squint, but he thinks the smugness comes across anyway. Lucky, meanwhile, has been watching raptly, wagging his tail with increasing energy as his potential new friend and pets-giver comes closer. By the time Frank has landed, the outboard motor is going at max RPMs, flinging rain water all over Clint’s jeans.

“Aw, dog, come on,” he sighs. “Now my pants are all wet too.”

Lucky does a little two-paw bounce toward Frank, indicating to his master that there is another human in the vicinity.

“That’s Frank,” Clint informs him. “He’s an asshole who likes to pull guns on people, and he thinks wearing all black makes him look cool.”

Frank shakes his head and makes a “tsch” sound (according to Clint’s lens captions), as he passes them and turns the corner into the street. Clint attaches Lucky’s lead again and they hurry after him.

“Where we going?” he asks, as they trot up to walk beside him.

“Place around here,” Frank answers cagily.

“That on Google maps, or…”

“You know, you got a lot of fuckin’ shit to say. I thought you’d be quieter.”

“And I thought you’d be louder. Looks like we’re even.”

Frank is actually forced to suppress a smile at this, which clearly annoys him, and pleases Clint to no end, since everyone knows that once someone has laughed at something you say, you have won the interaction. The practical upshot of this is that he actually stops talking and gives Frank a goddamn minute to think. They walk a few blocks in silence, then Frank casts a sidelong glance at him.

“So, what do the Avengers want with me?”

“Want your help with this trafficking case.”

“Let me clarify. I’d like the non-bullshit answer. Cause if you actually need my help, your superhero squad must be doing a lot worse than it looks like.”

“The Avengers organization doesn’t have unlimited resources, Frank. We’re responsible for a lot of really big things and when one of those things is happening, things like this tend to fall through the cracks. I’m just trying to sweep out the cracks.”

“Things like this. Petty, unimportant shit like teenaged girls gettin’ kidnapped and sold into slavery.”

“I didn’t say it’s petty or unimportant. But when it’s between the actual planet being destroyed and that, we have no choice. It’s triage. Since no one is currently trying to punch massive holes through the Earth’s core, or invading New York with giant catfish-boats full of alien bugs, we get to focus on the issues that are not as immediately essential to the world’s continued existence.”

Frank shakes his head again. “I know all that’s true, but you really sound like a pompous jackass right now.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You do that a lot.”

“What?”

“Sarcasm and jokes about your deafness.”

“You offended or something?”

“No. I think it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Oh is it? A defense mechanism? Do you think that?”

“Ok, fuck you.”

“I’m serious Frank, I have to tell my therapist about this breakthrough. She’ll be stunned.”

“You are such a fuckin’ prick.”

“She’ll probably retire from the profession in disgrace and move to a monastery in Tibet.”

“Dog housebroken?”

“His name’s Lucky and I’m insulted that you’d even ask me that.”

“I only heard you call him dog,” Frank says, as he stops in front of what appears to be a used book shop, and unlocks the door. “Thought that was his name.”

“Who names a dog ‘dog’?” Clint asks, following him inside.

“Dunno. Guy who wears a purple hoodie?”

Frank leads them to the back of the darkened book store, where there is another door, which he unlocks with a different key. This door opens upon a small warehouse and office area, lit dimly with some safety lights. At the far end, there is a metal grate in the floor that swings open on a hinge. Beneath this grate, a very narrow staircase leads down into what appears to be the actual pit of hell, judging from the level of inky-blackness.

“Shut that thing behind you,” Frank says, preceding Clint down hell-stairs.

Clint herds Lucky down onto the staircase and pulls the grate shut. In the pitch black, he can see the turquoise-hued glow of a numerical keypad, a couple feet away on what must be a door. Frank’s black blob obscures it as he punches in a code. A crack of dim light appears as Frank opens the door, and the three step into what Clint can only describe as a studio apartment-slash-national defense armory. The sheer number and variety of weapons, neatly stored on brackets and stands all along two of the walls is astonishing, and he’s been in the Avengers armory. The third wall is covered in grey-painted industrial lockers, also full of weapons. The room is L shaped, and around the corner there is a kitchen with stainless steel counters and appliances, and a small living area with a sofa, table, and two chairs.

“Foldout?” Clint grins. “Classy.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Frank says, as he moves to sit down on the sofa. “Get those wet clothes off, you’re dripping all over the goddamn place.”

“Wow, Frank, I mean. We just met. I don’t want you to think I’m a slu—”

“Yeah, ha ha. Real funny. Dryer’s in the bathroom.”

“You have, like…spare clothes or something?”

Frank jerks his chin in the direction of another row of grey lockers on the wall opposite the sofa. “Be my guest. Doubt they’re gonna fit very well, though.”

Clint is about three inches taller than Frank, and has him beat by a healthy margin as far as chest and shoulder broadness. Not that Frank is out of shape by any means. The man looks like he’s carved out of iron. He’s just a leaner, more wiry build. Clint goes over and grabs the latch to open the first locker. It won’t budge. The second one either.

“Hey Frank, I think your lockers are busted.” He turns around almost right into his host, who has suddenly appeared behind him. “Jesus Christ! You trying to give me a fucking heart attack?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing. Get outta the way, jackass.”

Frank puts his hand on the side of the first locker and pushes. To Clint’s delight, the whole bank of lockers slides smoothly over, exposing the entrance to an entire other room.

“Ooh, cool! Hidden doorway!” he says, peering about as he steps inside. This room is a very large bedroom, containing a black platform bed with grey linens, black dressers and night tables, and two more doors. “Wow, how the fuck big is this place?”

“Big enough,” Frank answers. Probably irritably or gruffly, but the lens readout doesn’t specify. “Door on the left is the infirmary. Bathroom’s on the right. Clothes in the dressers.”

With that, Frank turns around and goes back into the kitchen, where Lucky is politely creating a puddle on the concrete floor, and hoping food is about to happen. Clint watches for a second, and is almost startled by the sudden change in Frank’s hard demeanor. He kneels down and talks softly to the dog, unfastening his vest, and then carefully rubbing his wet fur with a bar towel. Clint gets caught staring and quickly turns away to look for clothes. He finds a drawer full of black t-shirts (of course) and takes one, then a drawer full of black trousers, black jeans, and dark blue jeans. No way these fit him. In the next dresser he finds dark grey pajama pants with a drawstring closure, made of some soft, stretchy fabric. These should work. 

When he’s got himself dried and changed, he starts his own clothes, including his shoes, tumbling in the dryer. Leaving his bow-holster and pouch of arrows on the counter, he slides his phone into the pajama-pants pocket and puts his glasses back on. This t-shirt is very tight. Kind of looks like he’s showing off, actually. The pajama bottoms don’t fit as loosely as he’d hoped, either, and the stretchy fabric is not exactly intended for concealment. At least they’re really dark grey, otherwise he may as well be displaying his dick in a butcher’s shop window.

As he opens the bathroom door, the rich, earthy scent of coffee brewing washes over him like a breath of heaven. Oh, fuck yes. Frank, you goddamn hero. He pads eagerly into the kitchen, where Frank is standing behind stainless-steel, bar-style counter. Clint takes a seat on one of the stools and Frank pours him a black mug of black coffee without being asked, then fills the other black mug on the counter and puts the pot back. Stupid everything-black Frank. Thinks he’s so cool cause his dishes match and his clothes make him look like a grown up. Holy shit, this coffee is so fucking good.

“Holy shit, this coffee is so fucking good,” Clint says, staring into the mug, as if the secret to its quality will somehow be visually decipherable. “What did you do to it?”

“I ground it up and put it in the coffee maker with water, what do you mean?”

“I mean it’s way better than mine. And the coffee at the diner. And most coffee I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, well. I like good coffee, so I buy good coffee.”

“Aw man, your machine is like, brand new!” Clint says, leaning over to look past Frank at the coffee maker.

“It’s five years old,” Frank smirks. “Do you live in a second-hand store or something?”

“No,” Clint retorts. “I live in a big apartment building. That I own. Like you should talk, anyway, you live in a used book store.”

“I don’t live here.”

“Uh…”

“This is one of my safehouses. You really think I’d take you to my actual home?”

“Well. No. Not when you say it like that.”

“What? Somethin’ wrong?” Frank asks, observing Clint’s furrowed brow as he casts his eyes about the place.

“Hm? No, it’s just occurring to me that we’re the same age and you have your shit way more together than I do.”

“I grew up young. Ma died, pop was a drunk and then he died, too. Grandparents took care of me until I was old enough to take care of them. Joined the Marines, got married, had kids. I did have my shit together. Now I’m a wanted criminal, everyone I loved is dead, and I have a lot of safehouses with a lot of guns in ‘em.”

“I, uh…knew that,” Clint says, fidgeting with his mug. “About your family. I’m sorry.” 

“Forget it. Just don’t dick me around. I got no time for bullshit and nothin’ to lose.” Frank pauses for a moment, seeming to regret his brusqueness. “What about you, you got family?”

“Brother. Aside from that, it’s just me and Lucky. And I’m divorced. Got finalized today, actually. No kids.”

“Probably better. Don’t exactly strike me as the dad type.”

“No, not really. Not a big fan of fatherhood in general.”

“Cause your old man smacked you around.”

Clint frowns. “How did you know that?”

“You got that look. Takes one to know one, you know? I got a lot of scars. Only about half of ‘em are from combat.”

Clint keeps his eyes on his coffee mug. “My dad was a drunk, too. Hit us all the time. Me and my brother. When I was nine, he caught me kissing another boy. Innocent kid shit. Barely a peck on the lips. He beat me so bad I almost died. Brother called the cops. Saved my life. But I lost my hearing till I was around fourteen. I’m permanently deaf now, because I never fully recovered, and I got injured again.”

“Pop dead?”

“Yep.”

“Good.”

“Yep.”

Lucky’s big, sweet, stupid head plunks itself comfortingly onto Clint’s lap. He reaches down and ruffles the velvety fur behind the dog’s floppy ears. His heart is pounding with adrenaline, and he’s grateful for the moment this gives him to steady his shaking hands. He has no idea what possessed him to be so suddenly, terrifyingly open with this man he just met and doesn’t even like. Instinct. That’s what it is. It’s because he knows instinctively that he can trust him. Like him or not, Frank Castle is a trustworthy man.

“Hey, Frank. No one knows any of that, except my ex, Bobbi. If you could keep it…you know.”

“Yeah. Of course. Why don’t we talk about that case.”


	3. Chapter 3

Clint is standing in his living room, tilting his head back and forth and squinting at the space, trying to figure out how he could make his apartment look as cool as Frank Castle’s safehouse. The obvious starting point would be a couch that isn’t probably the same age as him. Then tables that match the couch. Black couch. Black end tables. Lots of black. A rug. This is exhausting. Because once there’s matching furniture in the living room, his old-ass yellow-topped dining table and chairs will look out of place. Frank’s table was stainless steel. Like a coroner’s table. He is attempting to work out the likelihood of Frank’s table actually being from a coroner’s office, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Stupid phone. He’s busy trying to become cooler. He pulls it out of his pocket and has to do a double-take at the screen. He shoves his glasses on his face and touches the answer button, but his mouth has gone dry, and he has to clear his throat before he can talk.

**Cap. Rogers: Agent Barton?**

“Yes, sir. I’m here. What—uh, what’s up?” Clint winces at his own awkwardness. His brain turns into oatmeal every time they talk, though, so Captain Rogers probably doesn’t notice.

**Cap. Rogers: I’m calling about your, um. Your current assignment.**

“Uh…oh. What about it, Cap?”

Nothing comes through on his lens. Ten excruciating seconds pass. He’s beginning to think Captain Rogers hung up, when more purple text scrolls up.

**Cap. Rogers: I think it’d be better if we discussed it in person.**

“Sure. Should I come to the tower?”

Five more agonizing seconds.

**Cap. Rogers: No. It’s nothing formal. Just a chat. How about…that place we had coffee. In Bed-Stuy?**

“Yes, sir. I remember the place.”

**Cap. Rogers: You available around six?**

“I’ll be there.”

**Cap. Rogers: Thanks, Agent Barton. See you then.**

**\--Call Disconnected--**

Clint’s stomach has tied itself in about six knots and his entire head feels like it has suddenly overheated. He almost drops his phone as he stuffs it back in his jeans pocket. A thirty-second telephone conversation and he’s shaking like a goddamn junkie. His sudden, unaccountable fit of nerves about a meeting with his boss has a good reason, however. Namely, that there is exactly one place in Bed-Stuy he and Captain Rogers have had coffee together, and he is standing in it. Last time, Cap made it clear that it couldn’t happen again. Just like he’d made it clear pretty much every time before that. The risk of someone finding out and using that information to create controversy, tarnish reputations, and undermine the public’s faith in the Avengers was too much to ignore. Until he was desperate for another cup of coffee.

Clint’s lip curls in disgust. They’re both grown men but they have to do all this high-school runaround bullshit because people are a bunch of asshole bigots who can’t handle the idea that two of the men who regularly save the fucking world may also like to have coffee together sometimes. But that’s the way it is, and telling them they’re asshole bigots won’t help. The world has decided the Avengers are heroes for now, but the public are fickle and changeable in their loyalties, and if the Avengers lose their enthusiastic support, they risk another Sokovia accords fiasco. It was because of that debacle that Captain Rogers had even agreed to let Stark hire a PR firm to rejuvenate their image.

To their credit, their campaign has been pretty goddamn successful. Less creditably, a lot of it centers upon promoting an image of Captain Rogers as a walking American flag married to the concept of patriotism. A modern day saint. The historical whitewashing of the relationship between himself and Bucky Barnes before and during WWII was a work of chilling virtuosity. Military disciplinary documents purged, reports of certain concerns from primary and secondary school teachers expunged, elderly women with good intentions and bad memories interviewed for cutesy dating anecdote blurbs in dubiously factual History Channel documentaries.

Barnes and Rogers came out squeaky clean, with a fresh coat of glossy, heterosexual paint. Two kids who grew up together in Brooklyn. Best pals turned loyal brothers-at-arms. Pretty much actual brothers. Tragically and inspiringly torn apart by Sgt. Barnes’ premature (and extremely convenient from a PG-rated narrative perspective) death in action. Even heterosexual would be overselling it, really. If the PR people have their way, the idea that absolutely anything of _any_ orientation has ever occurred below Captain America’s iconic belt will never be allowed to cross the public’s minds. Steven Grant Rogers: defender of freedom and justice, asexual combat android.

Clint gets the logic behind their suburban-family-appeal reasoning, but it’s still a surreal way for the entire world to think of a man who has done things to you that made you come so hard you couldn’t remember your own name. That’s the way it goes when the first man you ever fucked is Captain goddamn America. For his sake and your own, you have to toe the party line and pretend he’s basically a bronze statue of a founding father that only comes to life when it’s time to fight evil, or record a series of PSAs for public schools. On the upside, it had alleviated a lot of his anxiety around the idea of having sex with other men. Who’s gonna outdo Captain America?

As he is mulling these things over, Clint is shoving open the fire-escape window, brewing a pot of coffee, making sure his least chipped mugs are washed and ready, changing all the linens on the bed he never sleeps in, and taking a shower. Lucky assists by being enthusiastically in the way, and then sticking his head inside the shower curtain to investigate the running water while Clint showers, which results in his prompt expulsion from the bathroom. By this time it’s almost six. Clint dries off and dresses hurriedly. Runs his fingers through his hair, which is pretty much all he can do with hair this short, then goes out to the living room to try and act casual. Then he decides he hates this shirt and never wants to see it again, and goes back in his room to change.

When he enters the living room again, the fire-escape window is closed and there’s a tall, well-built, blonde man in a brown leather jacket, white t-shirt, and blue jeans lying on his sofa. One hand keeps scratching Lucky behind the ear and the other raises itself above the back of the sofa in greeting.

“Hey, Steve,” Clint says, keeping his voice admirably natural and offhanded. “Coffee?”

The hand turns into a thumbs-up, then drops back down to keep petting Lucky. While Clint pours two mugs of coffee, Captain Rogers gets up and comes to sit at the table, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair. Lucky follows and encamps himself happily at the legendary super-soldier’s feet, neither knowing nor caring about him as anything but one of the fun friends who pets him really nice and plays no-dog-allowed wrestling games with his human.

Clint sets the mugs down as he seats himself. Steve takes his and sips it without looking up. His big, broad shoulders are sagging, like he’s under some kind of heavy weight, and his hyperbolically handsome face looks weary and drawn. Clint would have heard it in his voice on the phone earlier, if he could, but he didn’t need to. Steve calling him for coffee is evidence enough by itself that something’s wrong.

“You ok?” he ventures, after a minute or two.

Steve looks up at him to sign as he speaks. He’s not as fluent as Karen Page, but he’s conversational in ASL. He’s conversational in just about every language Clint has heard of, in fact.

“I’m ok,” he says. “I mean, obviously I’m not ok, but it’s nothing that’s going to be solved any time soon.”

Clint swallows a mouthful of his coffee to avoid responding right away. He knows exactly what this is about and who it’s about, and why Steve’s here. The who is Sergeant Barnes. The why and what; he’s in a bad way and can’t sleep. Having flashbacks or nightmares, or both. PTSD is real as fuck, and even superheroes don’t get over the things Rogers has been through so easy. Most people forget it wasn’t as long ago for Steve as everyone else, either. He’s been out of the ice, what, five years? Makes him thirty-two at most. Just a kid, standing alone in that long shadow of tragedy cast by heroism.

“She’s looking for him again,” Steve signs and says. “Isn’t she.”

Clint nods. There’s no point in trying to deny it. Steve puts his elbow on the table and rests his forehead in his hand. He looks so fucking broken. In pain, and kept isolated by his position. Clint reaches across the table and lays a hand on his arm. Steve’s hand rests on top of it for a second, then he looks up again. His eyes are pink-rimmed, but there aren’t any tears.

“I’m sorry I keep doing this to you—” he begins, but Clint physically stops his hands. 

“Don’t. We both know what we’re doing, so don’t insult me with apologies. You look fucking exhausted. Go get undressed and lie down. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Steve’s immense relief at this firmly spoken command is immediately visible on his face. Without another word, he gets up and walks down the hall to Clint’s bedroom. Clint sits at the table staring at the brown leather jacket hanging over the back of his shitty diner chair. Steve Rogers does something to his brain he can’t quantify or explain to anyone else. Turns him into an adult. A more empathetic, less selfish and chaotic, more calm and reflective person, overall. But that’s no big shock. He makes everyone better just by existing near them. Brings out the literal best in people, always. Being in proximity to Steve makes other people heroes.

Steve is a hero all the time, because he can’t help it. Everything about him that makes him Captain America is real, down to the core of the man. But the other side of him—the traumatized kid that never really came back from the war—that’s just as real. Only he hides it. Swallows it. Forces it down so he can keep fighting, keep sacrificing, keep doing what no one else can do, because the world needs him to do it. Because it’s right. No one sees him from this side of the shield. Not no one, but few enough people that Clint can count them on one hand. The fact that he happens to be one of them still blows his mind.

He wipes away a stray tear as he gets up from the table. Then he goes to the bathroom to splash some water on his face so it doesn’t look like he was crying. The bedroom lights are off, but it’s pretty well illuminated by the moonlight shining in the windows. Steve’s clothes are in a neat little stack on the dresser, folded into uniform squares. He is lying on his side facing away from the door, under the white sheets and purple comforter. Clint strips out of his clothes, leaving them lying on the floor, and slides into his bed beside his friend Steve (who he cannot help but always be a little bit aware in the back of his mind is also Captain fucking America). He lies down behind him and hooks an arm around him, pulling him close so their naked bodies are pressed flush against each other.

Clint is in particularly excellent shape, but this man…it’s like he’s made from some other substance. The power in his body is physically palpable. His skin is smooth as silk, but something about it feels less susceptible to damage than human skin. Like ballistic fiber as opposed to cotton fabric. He’s also a lot heavier than a regular human of his size and apparent muscle mass would be. Increased bone and tissue density from the treatment that made him a war machine. Clint presses his lips the back of his neck, breathing deeply. He smells so good. Not like cologne or anything that strong. It’s more like…shampoo and a trace of shaving cream and his natural scent, clean and masculine and unique to himself.

Steve lets out a long sigh, as his tense muscles go slack in Clint’s arms. Clint wouldn’t really be surprised if he just wanted to be held and fall asleep. It has happened before. He has almost begun to doze off himself, when Steve turns over to face him. Those bright blue eyes catch his and Clint’s stomach does a bunch of flips, like a teenager with a crush. Steve’s terrifyingly strong arms draw him in and their mouths find each other. He puts his hands on Clint’s face. The kiss is slow, deep, almost painfully intimate. Slices through Clint’s armor like a hot razor blade and lays him bare, exposed and raw. This is what Steve does. Opens him up like a can of beans and then covers that tender spot with rapt attention and intense desire. Makes him feel like he’s the only man in the world. Makes him feel wanted. Needed. Important. Hard not to feel amazing when a man like Steve Rogers trusts you enough to be naked and completely vulnerable with you. _You._ A fucking overgrown child with a bow and arrow and no superpowers.

“You need me to fuck you?” Clint says softly, drawing away to look into Steve’s face.

Steve nods. “Please.”

He leans over and takes the black bottle of lube from Clint’s night table. Clint is already kneeling between his legs, kissing a line down his smooth, solid abdomen. He feels Steve draw in a sharp breath as he takes him in his mouth. He’s not quite there yet, which Clint prefers, because that means he gets to feel his big, thick dick swelling and getting hard in his mouth. He laps and laves the head with his tongue, slides it into the back of his throat till he chokes on it, pulls back and swallows it again and again. He fucking loves this. The full, gagging feeling that makes drool run down his chin, the salty hint of pre-ejaculate, Steve’s hand gripping his shoulder, fingers digging in harder as he swallows around the swollen head.

Clint could literally suck Steve’s dick all day, but he’s got other plans, and he doesn’t want to let him come just yet, so he pulls off slowly, with an exaggerated pop, and takes the bottle of lube out of Steve’s hand. He puts one of Steve’s legs over his shoulder and Steve holds the other one up by the back of his thigh. Clint watches his face as he pushes his slicked up finger inside him, searching and sounding him for the right—Steve’s back arches and his eyes flutter shut. There. Clint hooks his finger and thrums over that spot till Steve is panting and his face is growing flushed. He adds another finger and begins to work them rhythmically in and out. Steve’s absurdly defined abdominal muscles keep flexing and contracting, and his gorgeous dick is drooling a clear puddle onto his stomach. Clint’s own dick is so hard he can feel the blood throbbing in it, but he wants to get Steve all the way to the edge first.

He slows down, pushes a third finger inside, and just barely prods Steve’s prostate as he stretches him open, intentionally tormenting him with the need for more depth and more friction. Steve’s got his white teeth clenched and the pink flush has spread to his chest. His insides begin squeezing on Clint’s fingers, trying to suck them in as he slides them out. His eyes snap open as the round, blunt head of Clint’s cock presses against his sensitive opening. It pushes through the resistant ring of muscle and he makes some kind of exclamation Clint can’t read on his lips, but he hopes it was dirty. Making Captain America say curse words while your dick’s inside him has got to be a win on life’s Bingo card. He keeps going, sinking his rigid shaft in Steve’s hot, slick hole until his pubic bone is flush against his ass.

“How’s that feel?” he asks, as he hooks both his legs over his shoulders and leans on them, pushing them higher up and further apart. “Can you come on my cock?”

Steve nods. His eyes stay locked on Clint’s as he begins to thrust, fucking into him in steady, relentless strokes. Beads of perspiration collect on Clint’s forehead and roll down, dripping off his chin and splashing onto Steve’s abdomen. Steve reaches up to take himself in hand, but Clint grabs his wrists and pins them at his sides. Obviously, Steve could break him like a matchstick, but it’s psychological. He wants to be held down and fucked. Told what to do. To be allowed to feel like he’s not the one in control for a little while. Clint obliges him, holding him by his wrists and beating the head of his cock against his prostate, making his dick leak like a busted pipe.

“Want to—come inside you,” Clint pants.

Steve nods again. He’s saying “fuck me” or mouthing the words, it doesn’t matter. His legs are starting to shake and his muscles are clamping down on Clint’s shaft. He won’t last long this way. Clint lets go of one of his wrists and slides his hand under Steve’s balls, lifting them away from his pelvis, and wrapping his hand firmly around the shaft of his cock behind them.

“Come for me,” he rasps. “I want you to watch you come all over yourself while I’m fucking you.”

“Ha—harder,” Steve begs. “Please…please—fuck!”

Clint abruptly increases his pace and force, using his powerful thighs and gluteal muscles to pound Steve’s asshole like a jackhammer. Steve cranes his neck to watch Clint’s dick piston in and out of him. His lips part and his jaw trembles. With a strangled cry, his body goes rigid and his hips jerk spasmodically, while his dick convulses, spurting milk-white streaks up his chest and onto his mouth and chin. The image of Steve coming on his own beautiful, sex-flushed face is too much for Clint. He swipes his fingers through the pearly spatters on Steve’s chest and shoves them into his mouth. He feels Steve’s tongue writhing as he gags and tries to swallow on them. He comes so hard he actually sees stars.

He legitimately can’t see for a moment, but he is vaguely aware of Steve pulling him down and kissing him. He lets his body collapse onto Steve’s and lies there fucked-out and drifting in the warm haze of euphoria. It occurs to him that Steve’s fingers are stroking his damp back, and he is immediately embarrassed that he’s been sweating all over him, but he’s too exhausted to move.

“Sorry I’m…sweaty,” he mumbles against one of Steve’s preposterous pectoral muscles, between which his head is cushioned.

He feels Steve’s laugh vibrate through his ribcage and wishes he could hear it. Steve lets him lie on him for a few more minutes, then rolls him onto his back and sits up.

“Come take a shower with me,” he signs. “Then I’m making you dinner.”

“Holy shit, dinner, too?” Clint says, as he is pulled to his feet. “Sex was that good, huh?”

The moment his weight is on his wobbly legs, his knees give out and he nearly falls, but Steve catches him and proceeds to carry him to the bathroom in one arm. Clint doesn’t care to make any protest. They both know how much stronger Steve is, and plus, how many opportunities does a six-foot-two inch, two-hundred pound man have to be carried around like a doll? The shower is certainly not big enough for two full-grown men, but they’re just rinsing off anyway. Or, they were supposed to be. Touching Steve’s warm, wet body makes Clint hard again, which Steve takes as an invitation to tease and stroke him under the pretense of helping him wash, until Clint pushes him down on his knees and fucks his mouth. Or rather, Steve fucks Clint’s dick with his mouth. He doesn’t have to breathe nearly as often as other people do, so he can let his airways be obstructed for effectively as long as he likes. He uses this highly specialized ability to hold Clint by his ass and deep-throat him till he milks his aching ejaculation out of him. He swallows it without hesitation, then pushes him against the wall and kisses him.

“I thought I was—pretty good at sucking dick,” he pants, when Steve releases him. “I feel like a fucking—amateur.”

Steve laughs and kisses him again.

“Do you actually have any food here?” he asks, once they’re dried and dressed again.

Clint blinks. “Uh…”

“I didn’t think so. I’m going down to that corner market to get a couple things. Pick a movie.”

“What if someone recognizes you?”

“I brought my disguise.”

“That baseball cap and glasses? Those do not count as a disguise, Steve. Steve!”

The door is already swinging shut behind him, so Clint remarks to Lucky about the absurdity of it as he puts on his glasses and hooks them up to his phone. He appreciates that Steve can communicate with him through ASL, but this way is just a lot more convenient, especially for cooking and watching a movie. He feels a pang of guilt every once in a while for ignoring that email from Stark about making him a specialized hearing aid. It’s not that he’s against them. They are specifically helpful for those in his dangerous line of work. But in his mind, getting one is tantamount to admitting his hearing loss is permanent, which he is still in a bit of denial about. Also, his hearing loss is so severe that he’s not a candidate for an in-the-canal type of device, and the idea of having one that everyone can see makes him feel exposed and vulnerable. Lucky wearing his service dog vest is different, because Lucky is the world’s best boy and he would bite anyone who bullied his deaf person anyway. He has done it before.

The lights flash just then, indicating that his doorbell is ringing. Steve must have forgotten something. He’s gotten about two steps toward the door, when Lucky grabs him by of a mouthful of his jeans and almost yanks him to the ground. Clint’s adrenaline spikes and he crouches instinctively. Lucky may look dumb, but he knows his business and he doesn’t fuck around.

“Where’re the bad guys, dog?” he whispers.

Lucky bares his fangs and growls toward the front door.

“Well, they’re in for an unpleasant surprise when Steve gets back. We just have to wait them out for a few minutes.” He pauses to assess the situation. “I better get my bow. You stand guard.”

Lucky stacks himself and stands bristling, pointed at the front door like a laser beam. Clint stays crouched, moving quickly and quietly down the hall to his bedroom. Thankfully the lights are off. If anyone is watching from outside, they won’t see much. He reaches in to grab his bow from where it’s leaning just inside the door, then something peculiar happens. What he can only imagine must be some kind of industrial machinery snaps shut around his wrist, and he is dragged into the room and tossed against the wall. This all happens in the blink of an eye, but Clint is not easy to stun or disorient. He flips over and springs to his feet to face his assailant.

“Fuck,” he manages to say, before a fist collides with his face like a cannonball.

In the split second while he is falling backward, before he is plunged into black unconsciousness, all he can think about is how pissed he is that his fucking glasses are smashed, and how bad it’s going to hurt when his head hits the floor.


End file.
